Poems (Campbell)/Address to the British Navy
ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH NAVY. 1813.
Ye gallant souls! that nobly brave, Still guard Britannia's happy shore,Or vent'rous plough the trackless wave From Arctic to Antarctic's roar—How shall a simple Northern lyre Attempt such proud and lofty strain,As dares to sing your dauntless fire And triumphs on the subject main? So bold a theme might well demandOh, wond'rous Scott! thy matchless hand.
The humbled pow'rs of Europe own Your sov'reign empire on the sea;'Tis there you rear Britannia's throne, And stamp her 'mong the nations free,The roaring deep, the 'whelming storm, Ne'er yet could British courage quell;For still ye worshipp'd Freedom's form, And conquer'd in her cause, or fell;And Ocean's waters, as they roll,Tell of your fame from pole to pole.
And turn our view to elder time, When Britain's glory Alfred plann'd;And rear'd a bulwark thus sublime, To centinel her happy land:—Ob, mighty warrior! mighty king! How bright on gothic darkness roseThy soaring genius' dazzling wing, And shook down ruin on thy foes—Ordain'd to wield, oh, best of men!The sword, the sceptre, and the pen.
In later years, Iberia's pow'r In vain its boasted strength display'd;She fled from Britain's guarded shore, All vanquish'd, ruin'd, and dismay'd:Then pressing on th' astonish'd view, What scenes of naval glories glide! Old Ocean, on his bosom blue, Bears your proud fleets with conscious pride,And speeds, triumphantly unfurl'd,Britannia's ensign round the world.
Still may that ensign, proudly spread, Wave glorious on the ocean-breeze;Humble our foes, protect our trade, And hold our empire on the seas:Still conquerors on the subject deep, May distant nations own your claim—And when in glory's arms you sleep, Ye die not—deathless is your fame!How bright the naval hero's doom—A grateful nation mourning o'er his tomb!
Nor deem that one unwept can fall, For ever to your country dear!She honours, and she mourns you all, And gems your laurels with a tear.And dearer far than public praise, For you, at nature's sacred shrineHer tears maternal anguish pays, And friendship mourns, and love divine.—In life renown'd, in mem'ry blest,Sweet is the patriot's place of rest!
For you the mother hourly prays, And bends to Heav'n the pious knee;For you what anxious thousands gaze, Trembling, upon the changeful sea. For you, from beauty's downcast eye, The pearly drop is seen to stray;And the fair bosom's secret sigh Mourns but the sailor far away—Oh! that propitious Heav'n may spare,And grant ye to a nation's pray'r!
And when the din of war is o'er, And glory's bright career is run,Return, ye warriors! to that shore From whence your brilliant course begun:Whether to England's Druid groves, Or Caledonia's mountain-rills,Or where the ancient Briton roves By Cambria's rude gigantic hills:Or where the brave Hibernian strays—Where Shannon's sparkling water plays!
Return—the sweets of peace to find, To bask in love and friendship's smile,The laurel round your brows to bind, To rest from danger and from toil;Again inhale the mountain breeze, And rear, upon your native land,Those oaks, that yet upon the seas Your children's children shall command;For distant ages, yet to time unknown,Britannia's empire on the deep shall own!